


Got a Mortgage on my Body

by Cards_Slash



Series: Led Zepplin Bondage series [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Language, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cards_Slash/pseuds/Cards_Slash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes what they did coiled up under their skin and there wasn’t anyone in the world that understood that feeling so well as your brother that grew up with it coiling under his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Got a Mortgage on my Body

“Don’t move,” Dean said against his ear, touching the tip of his tongue against the edge of Sam’s ear—just a damp little kiss: there and then _gone_. He was to one side, just a ghost pressure caving in his chest while Sam closed his eyes and bit his lip and tried really hard (like really, really hard) not to move, not to move a God-damn inch and all he could think was how he needed to stretch, how he needed to wiggle, how he needed to get the fuck up and make a run for it. 

Maybe that was the point, anyway, he’d never ever heard someone say ‘don’t move’ without having the intolerable _need_ to move. So that must have been part of it, like the too-tight grip of Dean’s damp-palm around his wrist or the rough-and-tightening grasp of the rope. There was a bunched-up and useless bit of clothe between the rope and his skin, supposed to keep him from thrashing rope burn into his skin.

(Some things, oh some things were so hard to explain.)

Sam kept his eyes closed and his hands still when all he wanted to do was _thrash_ and the need didn’t come from him but from Dean who had that in him. They both had it in them but Dean had it twisted up in his gut like a blackness that he wouldn’t use on Sammy—(no not ever)—just like he swore up and down and backwards straight from Sunday that he’d never find himself here. Dean wanted him to run, he wanted to chase him, he wanted to hold him down and _use_ him however the hell he wanted. Sam knew because he could see it—because he looked for it—because he’d been looking for it since the first time they fucked back when they were both aching raw little boys that lost their father all the way until _right now_. 

“You remember,” Dean whispered against the soft skin on the inside of his arm. He pressed a dry kiss there—scratchy chapped lips and blunt-push of his teeth just behind it. His body was so close that the smell of his cologne and Laundromat off-brand detergent was like a taste in Sam’s mouth. Like he could sneak his way into Sam’s body through all his pores. He got up, went around, stopped at the side and watched him.

Sam could go now, could yank the rope free and _run for it_. Dean would chase him down through the wrecked and breaking house, out into the midnight-wet grass and he’d take him down there, teeth at the back of his neck, knife standing like an open threat. They could fuck out there, careless and wild and _painful_ because sometimes it had to be like that. Sometimes what they did coiled up under their skin and there wasn’t anyone in the world that understood that feeling so well as your brother that grew up with it coiling under his.

But now, _now_ , Sam just needed this. He needed the pressure of his squeezed-shut eyes, the taste of his lips under his own tongue, the aching hyper-aware knowledge of his skin under his clothes. The buttons of his shirt, the teeth of his zipper, the hem of his shorts as it dug into his skin because they were twisted just a half-inch to the side. The fraying places in his socks as he stretched his toes and kept his voice suffocating in his chest. 

Dean moved forward, skidded his boots on the floor and grabbed his hand, pushed it down into the squeaking mattress and coiled the rope around it. (Their father taught them to tie knots like that; their father taught them a lot of things they used all the wrong ways.) Dean’s hand went down his arm, just three fingers and the ghost of fingernails until they hit the rolled up sleeves of his shirt. His breath was heavy and hot and shaking—Sam wanted to see him like that, see how the whole idea of it slowly-and-surely seduced Dean.

He wanted to see as it uncurled in his brother, moved from his pitying eyes to his gaping mouth to his throbbing pulse to his slow-rising-fast-falling chest, down to the quiver of muscle in his arms, the spastic squeeze of his fingers. Down to his gut where it swished around and sank through to his dick and made him so _hard_ his legs were shuffling forward before he even realized it. 

Oh Sam knew every way to seduce Dean, he knew all the ways he’d been taught and all the ways he’d learned and a few he stole right out from under Dean’s nose. He kept his eyes shut and he let the image paint across his eyelids until it was in-living-color with a squeak of the bed objecting as Dean’s knees hit it.

“Test them,” Dean said. He wasn’t on the bed—not yet—but he was pulling off his clothes. The shirt went first, back off his shoulders, off his arms, thrown across the head of the bed where the length of it fell against Sam’s fingers and got caught in his fist as he closed it and pulled at the ropes. 

The tight grip was like teeth on his skin and it was raw and it _hurt_ just enough to be like a warning that if he tried to get away it would tear his _skin off_. Dean knew how to hold him down and he knew how to tie him down and he knew how to keep him there, spread across the bed and _asking_ for it.

T-shirt went next. Sam opened his eyes to see that. Dean had a farmer’s tan from that life he’d had while Sam was gone. (He was sorry about that, he was, but he should have known that Dean never ever would have left him—not as long as he lived.) His shoulders were wintery-pale with dots of freckles that were too light to see in dim light. The candles caught on the tense of muscle and the rise-and-fall of breath as it moved through him. Sam watched his belly, watched how Dean’s hands tossed the shirt—all the uneasy motion of his body as his morals gave one last valiant attempt to talk sense to them both. 

Sam never asked for it twice—only once, somewhere safe, out in public, where Dean could say no if he were going to. But once they were here—this far—he never asked for it again. This Dean had to take or it wasn’t worth giving. Dean looked at him, hands at his sides and still uncertain but he looked at him, the whole length of his body hanging off the edges of the sagging old twin-bed. His jeans were like vice-grips around his thighs when he spread his knees and Dean’s voice was a rumbling little moan of thunder before he inched another breath forward and put his curved palm at the top of Sam’s knee.

Like _that_ , like that, like _that_ \--Dean’s hand moved down, over bone to muscle, skating the length of his thigh on the inside seam of his jeans and down-down to the warmth between his legs and he pressed his palm there to feel how hard Sam already was. “Damn,” he whispered to that—reverent and overwhelmed—and then he looked up at his face. Dean’s eyes were wide-open when Sam was tied down, wide-open to his heart and his soul and his every _single_ thought like maybe he figured if Sam was held down he couldn’t do anything to hurt him.

Dean watched his face but he pulled the button of his jeans, the zipper and then reached with two hands to get them off his hips—shorts too—down to his knees and then calves and then ankles and then _off_. When he dropped them to the ground with a dull thud Dean was standing at the end of the bed, watching him gulping for breath. 

It happened slow, Dean going from seduced and unsure to confident and _ready_ so when he put his knees on the bed and the very tips of his fingers out to steady himself against the mattress, he was only there for Sam. To do what Sam needed, to give Sam what he wanted, to work his body over and turn him inside _fucking_ out. 

(Next week, next month, he’d run and he’d let Dean chase him down.)

“Spread your legs,” Dean said. He followed Sam’s legs to the side, mouth against the inside of his thigh, teeth digging in hard enough it hurt more than it didn’t—leaving behind a mark that wouldn’t fade—and Sam pulled away from it, pulled with his arms and his legs and got nowhere but right there. Dean’s hand cupped his leg and his mouth sucked at the teeth marks, tongue laving at them like lover’s-pride and then he did it again—farther up. 

Bite and then lick and then _sucked_ at his skin so it was mottled with proof that it happened. Sam coiled his hands around the ropes and held on because he was going to shake right the fuck off the bed if he didn’t. His free leg was moving, hips pushing up against nothing and Dean was trickling-slowly-down like it was nothing, like he could spend all his time tasting this bit of skin until it was blood-hot and _pulsing_.

Dean’s fingernails caught his skin, scratched along it with blunt pressure that made him jerk again and then Dean was looking up at him, over his arching body—at his face—with a demon’s grin on his face and his lips red and bloody-looking. He shifted on his knees, put his hands high-up, where hip and thigh met, thumbs brushing against his balls with an edge of danger that more acute and more _real_ than any other fear Sam could remember ever feeling. It wasn’t pain because Dean wouldn’t hurt him—not ever—but he could walk away and leave him there. He could decide then, while he stared at him, that it wasn’t something he wanted.

Maybe he could decide that he didn’t need or want Sam, that he wasn’t going to give this to him. The fear was so tight in his chest that when Dean tipped his head and said, “Sam,” it shattered and left him breathless. 

Dean smiled at him for being an idiot, ducked his head and kissed his heaving belly, sucked at the sweat in his belly button, tongued an outline of bad intentions straight down to his dick. His hand was rough-as-sandpaper and smelling-like-floral-soap before it touched him. His mouth was panting-wet-breath and his lips were slick and hot. 

Sam wanted to rub his dick all over his fucking _face_ and cover him in come because it felt like years since they’d been anywhere near this place and maybe Dean forgot what it felt like too. He jerked his arms down and felt the tightening clench of the rope that held him there. Dean’s voice was a chuckle against the underside of his dick as he opened his mouth just enough to get the tip of his tongue out to trace up from the base to the tip and his eyes were glittery-slits and just _evil_. 

“Careful, Sammy,” Dean said. Then he opened his mouth and sucked him down with a groan that shot from Dean’s throat to Sam’s dick and ricocheted uselessly all over his body. His hands shoved Sam’s hips flat against the sagging bed and he sucked at him slow and easy and not-even-almost-enough at-all. Dean shifted his weight like he was just settling in for a long wait.

And oh-hell-he-might just be because Dean complained about everything (getting fucked and ball sweat and come and sore knees and—) but he could go _all day_ with his stupid mouth spread wide as a well-used hooker around Sam’s dick. He took his _time_ until Sam was a writhing and useless mess that would have fucked his brother’s face until he was _gagging_ on dick just to get _off_. 

The idea of it—of hours of this, just like this—went through him like lightning. A paradoxical surge that made him moan for more of it and curse at the cruelty of it. He rolled his head back, mouth hanging open and breathed _through it_. He pushed up and Dean slammed the flats of both hands down against his hipbones _hard_ and ran his teeth across Sam’s dick. It should have been a warning but it just made him squirm, made his back arch up and then he was twisting, trying to see, lifting his head so his chin was to his chest and he could see Dean’s pointy nose and watch how his head bobbed up-down on his _dick_. 

His fingernails were leaving crescent marks in Sam’s skin and he couldn’t even _feel_ it because all he could feel was the swollen ache of his dick in Dean’s mouth slipping across his slick-and-spit-slippery lips and rough tongue. It was building up and up and up and up like a tense in his belly that he couldn’t wriggle out. His toes were rolling in toward his feet and his elbows were jerking down as he tried to pull loose and grab Dean by the ears or the back of the head and shove him all the way down so he had to _swallow_ all of him.

Dean pulled off him with a pop and obscene red-lips, pink cheeks and sweat across the bridge of his nose. He rubbed at his chin with the back of his hand absently and looked up at him. His grin was loose and careless and _mean_ as he settled back down on his elbow with his arm open across Sam’s leg and his other fist making a wide-open ring around his dick. He watched him pushing up through his fingers and his smile became all white teeth and open amusement.

“Dean,” Sam said. Cracked _wide open_ just like Dean’s eyes. He was nothing but nerve endings and Dean pushed up on his hands and knees and climbed up his body to kiss him. He was still wearing jeans that were too damn rough against all of Sam’s skin and his mouth tasted like dick and salt and Sam could get _drunk_ on it. He tried to get his arms around Dean, tried to get him closer and he couldn’t move them enough to get a grip. “Dean,” he said again. Dean kissed him, hands on the undersides of his legs, splitting him open even wider. 

Sam thought—if he could—he’d tear Dean’s pants off and shove them off his ass, grab his dick and jerk him off so hard that it was like stripping the skin right off his dick. He kissed Dean back sloppy, with tongue, trying to push the ideas straight into him, trying to make him understand what he wanted without words. 

They both knew.

Dean knew.

He rolled his hips—his stupid jeans—against Sam and with how his legs were pushed up toward his chest and how raw he felt it was torture like sandpaper grating his skin right off. Just a tease to the ache and the flush of _want_ that he couldn’t grab and take himself. (Sometimes, he thought, if Dean could stand it, he’d keep going until he broke Sam and made him _beg_ but they’d never made it there.)

“I got you,” Dean said. He kissed his neck, the hollow of his throat and then back to his mouth, tongue pushing down inside and sharing the taste of his own sweat and desperation with him. He pulled back far enough to get his jeans open and down and the condom and lube out of his pockets. 

Sam could have _cried_ with relief but he closed his eyes and gulped down air to his starving lungs until his head stopped spinning so fast. He kept his knees up and Dean leaned against the leg he’d bitten bruises into and rubbed his two fingertips against him. 

They’d fucked earlier—before—they always did. Dean fucked him early in the day, before breakfast, when they had all their hands and Sam could kiss him and hold onto him and dig in until he broke Dean’s skin and he could whisper and _shout_ filth if he wanted to. Dean fucked him until he was so close and then he pulled back, out, _away_ and Sam had to use his hand and his imagination and Dean crawled up his thighs and they jerked off together like that so neither of them got what they needed or wanted. 

Hours-and-hours-and-hours later they ended the day like this. Dean’s two fingers pushing back into his body just to remind him what he could have had before, to bring it all back—the whole frustrating day. (Sour taste of the coffee, the rain on the ground, the annoying pitch of Dean’s stupid music in the Impala, the unending frustration of fighting a losing back against evil, the teeth-grating hate for the bitch flirting with Dean.) All at once they were right back there, Dean inside of him and going _deep_ while Sam dropped his head back and groaned so hard his ribs felt like they were rattling. 

Slicking him up was the easy part because he wanted it but Dean took his time and drove him crazy with his fucking fingers. Made him _mad_ with need and licked the edge of his own smile like a clever little boy as he slid a hand down his condom-shiny dick to slick it with a palm dripping with lube. His knees shuffled on the shrieking bed. Dean ducked his head as he lined them up and then looked at his face when he pushed forward-and-in (again, at _last_ and _finally_ ). Sam was shivering with it, little tremors in his shoulders and arms and elbows and down in his thighs trying to grip at Dean’s sides and his heels trying to make him get in _faster_.

Like this he was all need and no sense but Dean took his time sinking into him and making him _feel_ it. The way he opened up and the way Dean fit inside of him. His eyes closed and his breath got stuck in his throat and all he could feel besides the throb of his heart in every little part of his body was how Dean felt sliding into him. 

“Legs up,” Dean said, got his arms under his thighs and moved his knees and thighs so they were supporting his back. He was too-far-away from him like that but he could fuck him, like _really_ fuck him and Sam _knew_ it was coming. 

He’d been to hell and he’d lost his soul and he’d come back in Bobby’s panic room with a year of time caught behind a wall that Death put in his mind. He couldn’t remember anything he’d done but he knew it was bad but his whole body remembered what was coming when it hadn’t felt anything like it in _years_.

“Dean,” he said. 

Dean fucked him; knocking his shoulders hard against the ratty sheets, pushing up on the bed, pulling back on his legs to keep him there and driving into his body with nothing more mindful than _need_. It was raw and hard and obscene—smack of skin to skin and the squeal of the bed. The slippery slap of his dick driving into Sam again-and-again-again. He was gripping the rope, feeling it burn through to his wrists and trying to push back, arching into with every new thrust. Wiggling his hips and his thighs and squeezing around Dean’s body just to try to get him to drive in and hit him _just right_. 

Dean knew it, all dripping-sweat and coughing-broken-off pants as he tightened his hands until they hurt and then letting go of his legs to put his hands against the bed, pause-and-shift-and-then back to fucking only slower. Hard and slippery but not deep, not _there_ , not how he wanted it or needed it. Just like that, so all he could feel was exactly how Dean was using his body, how felt pushing into him, how he felt sliding back out, how it moved his whole body and knocked the breath right out of his throat with garbled grunts.

Sam thought—if he could use his hands, he would be tearing Dean’s back to ribbons, turning him over and shoving him on the bed and riding his dick just so he could fuck himself and get _off_ on it. Like this he had no choice, no way of getting it so he was stuck there, just feeling it, watching Dean moving over him and making silent pleas with his fucked-out breath that—

Dean ducked his head and licked him—somewhere between tit and shoulder and then closed his mouth around the skin and sucked. His knees spread and his hands pushed at Sam’s thighs and his hips shifted so when he fucked _down_ and _in_ he slid deep and it was like the fucking Fourth of July fireworks exploding everywhere in his body. 

Sam came so hard he would have screamed if he had the breath and he didn’t so he was just shaking and back arched, body clamping down hard everywhere so Dean grunted something like a curse. When he came down (just a floating little feather) he collapsed against the bed and made it shriek in objection. Dean was grinding forward into his body, pressing kisses to his skin and petting all down his sides and up over his shirt to his arms, stretched over him to curl his hands around the ropes already digging in to his skin and leaving burning streaks of hurt-good-pain behind. 

“Dean,” he said (fucked _out_ ). He meant, finish or keep going or do what you need to but Dean kissed his throat to silence him. He was already working his hips in short-deep-thrusts, losing rhythm, being selfish, doing nothing but finding his own release and it was too-much-already but satisfying because when Dean came with a heavy groan (back stiff and hands clutching sheets) he did it _in Sam_.

The after was always messiest. Dean moving back, sloppy and uncoordinated, throwing the condom to the side, hiking his jeans back up. He kept a knife by the bed to cut the ropes because the knots were tight. Sam pulled his arms down against his chest—fingers tingling—and Dean threw the knife on the floor or a table and crawled back in against him. 

Sam wrapped his arms around him—ropes still hanging on his wrists like bangles—and let Dean bury his face in the bend of his neck, let him put himself back together like it had been him ripped apart. Sam stroked his back—down his spine—and waited for his breathing to settle, half asleep, and then he cocked his head to look down at him.

“We have to clean up,” he said. Sometimes he just kissed him. Sometimes Dean needed him to kiss him and hang onto him and make it okay that sometimes they did this. 

This time, Sam sat on the bed with Dean standing between his open knees and Dean pulled the knots off his wrists because he’d tied them there. He pulled the cloth cuffs off too and rubbed his thumb over the pink-and-reddened skin with a little frown. “Should have used the ties or something,” he said. He kissed his skin where it was rubbed off and then the dip in the center of his palms. “Probably wouldn’t have been enough.”

Sam shrugged, “that doesn’t hurt. Your teeth marks on my leg hurt.” They were red-hot now that he wasn’t distracted and he knew as soon as he put his jeans on the inseam would rub right across them. 

Dean’s grin was lopsided and he shrugged it off. “I was in the moment.”

Sam snorted, “let me get cleaned up and then we can get some sleep before we head out.” Dean held onto his hands for another second (maybe ten) and then nodded and let him go. He stepped back and picked up his shirt off the head of the bed while Sam stood up and pulled his own off. “Dean,” he said and when Dean looked at him he threw the shirt over his face and laughed. 

“Thanks Sammy,” Dean said through the shirt, “really.”


End file.
